


Tumblr Snippets

by ShebaRen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Babysitter!Stiles, Blood, Body Horror, Creature Stiles, Graphic Description of Wounds, Kissing, M/M, Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, OC: Child, Time Travel, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-08-07 10:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7711435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShebaRen/pseuds/ShebaRen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things I posted at, or because of, Tumblr.</p><p>Chapter 4:</p><p>Six years and the moon is high and round above the trees and there’s wind against his scarred skin, dead leaves and dirt beneath his feet.</p><p>His blood is rushing through his body, he can hear his heart beating. The muscles in his legs are protesting and he is breathing hard. There’s blood where the branches have managed to tear his skin.</p><p> </p><p>Peter doesn’t care.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time in six years he’s free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting anything here. Enjoy :)

A teenager needs money, alright? 

Especially a teenager that spends his time in the woods, running with werewolves and getting maimed on a regular basis. He doesn’t want to answer the questions his father is bound to ask when Stiles tells him he needs new shirts because the last one (or two, or five) have been sacrificed to staunch a wound or got ripped because the monster of the week chose Stiles as his favorite snack.

So, money. Summer vacation is not the ideal time to sell essays, so he has to earn it somewhere else. And Mrs. Simmers has been asking, so why not?  
Which is how he finds himself at the local park, surrounded by gossiping moms, the occasional jogger and a horde of children running around and playing. Its more relaxing than he would think; the mothers ignore him mostly and the weather’s nice enough. Tyler, his charge for the afternoon, is content to play on the bars with the other kids. Stiles is free to read his book though he makes sure to keep an eye on Tyler. The guy can be surprisingly fast for a three year old and he doesn’t want a repeat of last week where he spent half an hour internally freaking out and looking for him because he thought following the ‘cute doggy for cuddles’ was a great idea.

“This is a surprise” a familiar voice said from his side.

Stiles startled so badly he almost dropped his book. Somehow the resident Creeperwolf had managed to sit down next to him without him noticing. Stiles cranes his head to check on Tyler, relaxing only a fraction when he sees him sitting in the sandbox, before he eyes Peter.

“Wow, I knew you were into creeping on highschoolers but this? You, near a playground? Not cool, man. Seriously this is a new level of creepiness.”

“You wound me, Stiles. Here I am, a measly messenger for my dear nephew and you accuse me of wanting to snatch innocent children?”

Stiles scoffs. He has no time to answer however, as Tyler chooses that moment to come up to his bench and ask for grapes and Stiles almost gets a coronary. Peter and children do not compute in his brain, or if it does, it takes the path of 'do not let near. Ever.’ Rationally he knows that Peter has been around children before. Derek and Cora were not born full adult, after all. But still, that was, well, before. 

Peter, the smarmy bastard, ignores Stile’s death glare and leans forward. 

“And who are you?” He asks Tyler, who is blissfully unaware of Stiles distress and munching his grapes.

“’m Tyler!’N I’m four.” Tyler beams through a full mouth, spilling half the content over his Spiderman T-shirt. He proudly holds up three fingers for Peter to inspect. Peter hums and 'ah’s through Tyler’s babble while the four year old launches in a drawn out tale about kindergarten. 

Stiles is watching them and while he’s still uneasy about Peter’s proximity to several very breakable humans, especially the one under his care, he relaxes a fraction. The sight of Peter, mock engrossed in what Tyler has to say… His relaxed shoulders, the small smile (and oh god, that smile, he wants to see more of that) he throws Tyler. He… fits. 

And then he is abruptly reminded that, yes this is a public park and dangerous or not, Peter is hot, okay. Because the moms on the other side of the sand box ogle Peter without shame and break out into giggles. He scowls at them.

To Peter he says: “So, Derek?”

Peter looks up to him, blinks. Then smirks. “Derek.”

Stiles groans. “Get out with it. Pack meeting?”

“Has he ever rounded you up with any other reason?”

The teen sighs. “No, I guess not. When is the Sourwolf expecting us?” 

“As soon as possible. As I understand there has been some dubious activity in the preserve.”

He snorts. “Dude, we are the dubious activity in the preserve.”

“Stiles. Stiles!” And that’s Tyler who’s feeling ignored. He grips the boy and hosts him up on his lap. “Yeah munchkin, I know. Just a minute and then we can try out how high those swings go, how does that sound? Here.” He feeds Tyler another grape to distract him.

To Peter he says: “I’m on babysitting duty until five, but I can swing by after that.”

The werewolf nods. “Half past five at Derek’s loft then.”

And because Peter is a troll he takes Stiles chin in a soft grip, brushing his against Stiles’ lips, gently murmuring “See you later, Stiles”. Then he saunters off, though not without winking at the moms across the playground. Who are now staring scandalized at Stiles, their faces literally screaming 'NO WAY’.

“What. Just- Oh. My. God.” Stiles squeaks and tries to hide his flaming face in Tyler’s hair. 

That creepy werewolf bastard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets a freshly awoken Peter Hale in the woods.

It is raining, when Stiles sees the man stumble from the brush of the woods onto the street. He slows the jeep down. The man is wearing something that looks suspiciously like an hospital gown, and his overall appearance looks wet and dirty. Stiles rolls to a stop next to the bedragled man before he scrolls the window down.

„Hey man, can I help you? Give you a lift somewhere?“

The man startles as if he hadn’t even registered that a car was standing next to him. Come to think of, he looked kind of out of it. In combination with the gown, this looked more of a case of lost hospital patient than axe murderer. He shifted his head to face Stiles and now he could see that half of his face was completely covered in burn scars. Yeouch.

The man stared at Stiles and for a moment he thought that the man hadn’t understood him, when something shifted on his pale face. He took a step towards the car, gripping the rahmen with both hands. With a scratchy voice he said one word:

“Laura.“

Then he registered that the dirt on the mans hand was in fact blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was scrapped from a slightly longer project I'm preparing for NaNoWriMo.


	3. Creature!Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s itching. Stiles fidgets. He knows it’s the wound he got in the fight earlier this day and he shouldn’t touch it, but he can’t resist -
> 
> He puts his hand on his thigh and rubs.
> 
> White hot pain shoots through his leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this](https://www.instagram.com/p/BO7QMdwhMd2/) picture on instagram. I couldn’t resist writing down what my mind came up with, ahaha… I blame @lostwithoutmyanchor <3 because they posted it on the steternetwork.
> 
> Warnings: body horror (?) and graphic description of blood and wounds. Not proof-read.
> 
> Tags: Creature!Stiles
> 
> Changed the rating and tags.

It’s itching. Stiles fidgets. He knows it’s the wound and he shouldn’t - but he can’t - 

 

He puts his hand on his thigh and  _ rubs _ . 

 

White hot pain shoots through his leg. A whine climbs out of his throat unbidden. But he can’t move his hand away from where he knows the bandages are covering the stitches under his sweatpants. His left hand is gripping the fabric of his pants so hard, his knuckles are white with force. It’s all he can do not to put any more pressure on the wound. 

 

Despite the pain it had felt good to get his hands on the itching wound. For a moment, it was even enough to get it to stop. Now it’s back three times worse. 

 

Stiles bites his lips. He shifts a bit in his seat. It’s like a mosquito bite, but worse. He know scritching too hard could tear the stitches.

 

But.

 

It itches.

 

He tries to ignore it, but it’s like whatever is making the wound itch so much has only been made worse by the rubbing. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Stiles closes his eyes in desperation and chews on his lip as he tries to ignore the urge to get his hands on the wound and  _ scratch _ .

 

.

.

.

.

.

_ scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch - _

 

White hot pain lances through his leg, but he doesn’t care. It feels too good. He should be embarrassed by the moan that escapes his throat but. He. Does. Not. Care. Fuuuuck, he thinks dazed, while his fingers rake hard over the covered wounds.

 

Every  touch burnes. He tries to be careful, not to scratch directly over where he knows the stitches are. His hands have developed a mind of their own and he doesn’t think he could stop even if he wanted to.

  
  


_ -scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch - _

 

He’s dimly aware that it’s a bad idea to do this, but it’s like he can’t think clearly around the relief that floods him with every scratch. He doesn’t know how long he’s clawing at his thigh, only that it’s too long.

 

Stiles forces his hands to a stop somehow. The fingertips are still digging in his flesh, but at least he he has willed them still. Only then does he realize how hard he’s breathing. Harsh pants fall from his lips and oh, he has bitten them bloody. He tries to take a breath, relax his muscles from the cramped mess he’s turned into.

 

As soon as he tries to take his hands off his thigh, he realizes his mistake.

 

The itching returns in full force. 

 

Stiles doesn’t even try to resist this time. He’s full out crying, because even though his fingers are clawing at his leg, it’s not enough.

 

Pain and tingling are interwoven, spreading from his wound over his entire leg. Tears are falling from his eyes. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. He has to do something.

 

Frantically he paws at his sweatpants, needing them off, NOW. He stumbles of his chair in his haste of getting out of the offending article of clothing and lands painfully on his ass on the floor but his brain has given up the effort to concentrate on anything beside making the itching stop,  _ somehow _ .

 

He sits there for a second, hunched over, panting hard. His sweatpants are tangled around his feet, his fingers digging into the bandage which is the last layer separating them from the wound. 

 

The pain is blinding.

 

He just  _ needs _ to -

 

_ Nails raking over flesh _

 

His thigh is a mess of red lines where he scratched hard even through the fabric of his pants. He doesn’t care about about the blood that wells up where he’s digging too deep with his nails.  

 

In this moment he would have given  _ anything _ for werewolf claws .

 

He doesn’t notice tearing off the bandage. Then again, he doesn’t think he could have stopped if he had. 

 

It’s mess under there. The stitches are torn and the wound is bleeding sluggishly. Stiles has been out of fucks half an hour ago, but this is insanity -

\- his fingers are clawing at the wound, nails digging into the bleeding wound and then he’s  _ tearing _ at the flesh-

 

_ ohgodohgod _

 

\- he can’t  _ stop -  _

 

_ ohgodwhatisthis _

 

\- there’s a ringing in his ears, and that’s him, he’s screaming - 

 

“Stiles!? Stiles, STOP!! Oh god, what are you doing….?!?”

 

There are hands gripping his wrists and forcing them away from the now gaping wound on his leg. There are smears of blood everywhere on the white flesh of his thigh and his fingers are read.

 

His eyes can’t focus on anything else but the mocking maw of mutilated flesh.

 

The scales that have been laid free are glistening black with blood.


	4. Nogitsune!Stiles, Timetravel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years and the moon is high and round above the trees and there’s wind against his scarred skin, dead leaves and dirt beneath his feet.
> 
> His blood is rushing through his body, he can hear his heart beating. The muscles in his legs are protesting and he is breathing hard. There’s blood where the branches have managed to tear his skin.
> 
>  
> 
> Peter doesn’t care.
> 
>  
> 
> For the first time in six years he’s free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly forgot I had this half finished thing out there, and that there is more! But then @lostwithoutmyanchor said “I want a Steter fic where Stiles is the one saying “You must be Peter” in that very sensual tone.“ and I was like, wait a moment -   
> So, I don’t think this really counts as sensual, but here it is :)
> 
> (Nothing here is beta-read)

Peter is running. Branches are snagging at his skin and the flimsy hospital gown he is wearing, but he doesn’t care, because he’s  _ moving _ .

 

Six years.

 

Six years and the moon is high and round above the trees and there’s wind against his scarred skin, dead leaves and dirt beneath his feet.

His blood is rushing through his body, he can hear his heart beating. The muscles in his legs are protesting and he is breathing hard. There’s blood where the branches have managed to tear his skin.

 

Peter doesn’t care.

 

For the first time in six years he’s  _ free _ .

 

He throws his head back and howls.

 

**

 

In the distance there’s an answering howl and that’s- that’s not right.

 

**

 

Peter slows his run until he’s coming to a stop. Cocking his head, his thoughts are racing. He grips the nearest tree for balance. For a moment he stares dazed into the night, not seeing or hearing anything but the noises of the nightlife of the forest and his own heartbeat.

 

There’s not supposed to be an answer. He has heard the nurses talking about it. Gossiping. About the fire. That he’s the last Hale in Beacon Hill.

 

**

 

Another howl is calling him. Questioning, familiar.  _ Greeting, friend-intruder-who?,  _ it asks.

He knows that howl. Has taught the owner how to intonate it. It crushes something in his chest he didn’t know he still had that they didn’t recognize his howl.

 

_ ** _

 

His hand spasms. A whine is climbing, tearing, out of his chest. The bark splinters under his claws.

 

He was supposed to be the last. Because… because if he’s  _ not _ ...

 

**

 

_ Then they left him. _

 

**

 

There’s blood on his hands, as he’s stumbling away from Laura’s cooling corpse. Peter hasn’t felt anything as he killed her - no pack bonds snapping, nothing. Only the empty rush of power as her Alpha spark transferred over and settled in his chest. He feels numb.

 

Six years ago, he would have scolded her about the lacking attention of her surroundings.

 

But then again, lying in bed, unable to move, to speak, vulnerable to anyone who looked for him would change a man.

 

He laughs, slightly crazed. He’s an alpha now. What’s he supposed to do with that? The scars are still there. His family is still gone.

 

Peter only manages a few feet from the corpse before his legs give out and he’s sitting in the dirt. The attack took a lot out of him. Absently he wonders if Laura was alone. Have there been other survivors he didn’t know about? Or had she a new pack, bitten Betas of her own?

 

No matter now. At least they would have felt her death.

 

**

 

From one second to the next, there’s another heartbeat in the clearing behind him. It’s so sudden and unexpected that for a second Peter believes Laura has somehow managed to survive and has only just now decided to continue living.

 

He turns around as fast as his position on the ground allows him, heart racing.  

 

There’s a stranger standing over Laura’s body, looking down at her.

How…? Peter hadn’t heard anyone coming. The heartbeat had just been  _ there _ . Whatever Peter had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

 

In the dim light of the moon he can see that the man is young, maybe in his early twenties. Moles dot his pale skin and he is dressed in loose fitting plaid shirt and jeans. A shudder runs down Peter’s back at the sight and for a second he has no idea why, when he notices the unnatural stillness in the other’s posture. 

 

The man looks up. A smile spreads over his face.

 

“There you are.”, he says, obviously pleased. “You must be Peter.”

 

Instantly, Peter becomes wary. How does this stranger know him? He blinks -

 

\- and the man is kneeling in front of him.

 

Startled, Peter wolfs out. Snarling and clawing he goes at him, trying to rip out his throat.

Before he can even touch the stranger’s skin though, his arm is stopped in a vice like grip. He roars in fury.

 

“Sorry”, the stranger says unperturbed “I forget that that weirds people out. Maybe I should stop doing that.” He’s frowning at himself, before he shakes out of his musings. He stands up, tugging at Peter’s arm until he’s standing too.

 

Peter can’t free his hand out of his grip. Givin up, he grits his teeth. “Who are you and what do you want?”, he growls.

 

“Well, I must be Stiles I think.”, the stranger, Stiles, smirks at him like they’re sharing a private joke. “As for what I want… Nothing more but help you with whatever you decide to do and  _ feast _ on the results.”

 

Peter has no idea what he means, no idea what Stiles wants. He doesn’t have a choice but follow Stiles death grip on his arm as he starts walking.

 

**

 

Around them, the shadows shift.


End file.
